Manners at the Wake

Manners at the Wake: Do Not to Gawk Straight at a Her.  Or Him.  Or Her.

           

Only when in her periphery.  Only when oars scud off the water

            of her face to cause some pause– Only when that water,

                        riding inside and beside, only until it's past them all, when

                                   the float is not possible anymore, or the wave, or the rough

                                                or sweet, the cut or the unmarked can reach

into her dear own throat, only then (but seen later) does that bubble, all along,

           all along rise to her surface and make sense: opaque as air with its flat water

                        seal, it is a glimpse, a lidded breath, a delicate, delicate hell, this 

                                    little bubble rising from her lung to throat to nose

to roost there maybe on the (w)hole world of her face, waiting.  And more, in the 

            suds of her mouth, what's later wiped away swift and simple by Mama, who’s next

                       to see, who's head was never so perched, never such a rock

                                    in her lap of air, not since baby, born still as clotted 

                                               milk, the pause, Jesus that rock that pause before

she sways and holds her wet flower of handkerchief to her mouth, breathes in

            and gags.